


Living Just Isn't Hard Enough

by agirlnamedtruth



Series: WIPs [On Hiatus] [4]
Category: Confessions of Dorian Gray, Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Between Seasons/Series, Crossover, Crossover Pairings, Demon Deals, Demons, Dubious Consent, Dubious Morality, F/M, Soul Selling
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-12-08
Updated: 2013-12-08
Packaged: 2018-01-03 23:58:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,535
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1074576
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/agirlnamedtruth/pseuds/agirlnamedtruth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dorian Gray walks into a bar and meets Meg Masters. For the second time, he finds himself losing possession of his soul.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Living Just Isn't Hard Enough

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [Into A Bar](http://intoabar.livejournal.com/) but it kind of spiraled into a 'verse so I'm going to post it as a WIP. It is currently rated PG13 but that will no doubt go up as the 'verse goes on. Even though the more well known fandom in this is American, it will be written in British English as the POV character is British.
> 
> Set between Series 5 and 6 of Supernatural, between Lucifer's defeat and her working with the Winchesters. Title taken from [Prayer](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DWSlOCEzRGo) by Disturbed.

It was the tail end of 2010, Dorian found himself in one of the far corners of Missouri and he was tired. Tired of everything. Each bar on the never ending stretch of American back roads was the same. Even the people were the same, a few bikers and gran turismos, a few out-of-towners, a whole lot of locals with nothing better to do than drink and one or two things Dorian didn't want to examine further.

One of those things was staring at him from the other end of the bar. Her dirty martini had run dry and she was toying with the olive. He gathered she was trying to convince him to buy the next one. He wasn't going to take the bait even though she was stunning, long dark hair and tight jeans, a leather jacket to match – the very picture of trouble itself. She looked devilish and that was just what she was. A devil. And she was coming towards him, having given up with the staring and smiling.

"Well, aren't you cute?" she asked, her tone so sweet, it was nearly patronizing. She put her back to the bar and leaned against it so he had no choice but to look at her.

"And aren't you a demon?" he asked of her, using the same tone, making sure it sounded just a condescending.

Her eyes flickered black, like they always did when a demon was recognized for what it was. She quickly blinked them back to a more natural colour and smiled again, this time it was a smirk.

"Oooh, does my reputation precede me or are you just a clever little pipsqueak? You're too upstanding looking to be a hunter." She looked him up and down and he felt energy wash over him, probing, trying to work out what he was. _Let it try._

"I'm just well read." Dorian looked away, staring at the mirror behind the bar, doing his best impression of someone who wanted to be alone. He didn't. Nobody went to a bar on their own to stay alone.

"I'm Meg," she said, ignoring the hints that he was dropping like anvils. "Why don't I get you a drink? You've nursed that one so long it'll fly the nest soon."

Dorian pulled his glass closer to himself, it was more rocks than Scotch and the rocks were melting fast. Still, he shook his head. "I'm fine."

"Aw come on, honey, you don't even look old enough to have bought that first one. It's just a drink, not your immortal soul."

Dorian grimaced, not missing the irony. "I prefer my drinking companions to have souls to begin with."

"Oh yeah?" Meg leaned in close to his neck, breathing him in while her power stroked against him again. "I don't smell a hint of a soul on you. Doesn't that make you the slightest hypocrite?"

"I have a soul," Dorian said, trying not to sound defensive. "I just left it at home."

"So did I, in a manner of speaking," she said distractedly, her hand coming up to his chest to mirror how her power had stroked him. "What are you?"

He caught her wrist before she could make contact. "It doesn't matter."

"Oh yes, it does, I've been to the darkest corners of hell, I worked under Lucifer himself. I've seen every creature to be seen, every deal brokered for every soul sold. What do we have on yours, a timeshare?"

He expected her to wrench herself free but she let him keep hold if her, taking the upper hand back because he couldn't scare her away but she was scaring him. She'd seen all the things that went bump in the night and yet, she hadn't seen one of him.

He slackened his fingers, letting her hand slip free. She wasn't giving up and as she said, she knew about every type of deal that had been made. Maybe she knew about his deal.

"I'm Dorian," he said, answering her first question, following it up with an answer to the next on, "and I don't know. I didn't _know_ I was making a deal."

Meg laughed, her wicked smile getting wider.

"What?" Dorian asked defensively. He was often the butt of the joke that was his own name, it had grown wearing over the years. "Have I said something amusing?"

"No, sweetheart," Meg laughed, making him feel worse. "It’s just... I should start a collection, I already have a Clarence. Now I could have a Dorian too."

“No. Thank you.” Dorian said, deciding whatever she knew wasn’t worth it.

But she wouldn’t leave. She studied him closer and somehow her stare was more penetrating than her powers had been. He turned his attention back to his drink, burning out her gaze with Scotch. She didn't relent though.

"You're miserable, aren't you?" she asked, her tone nigh on a sneer like he was some ingrate, unappreciative of the gift hell had given him.

"What do you want?" Dorian asked, so thoroughly tired of her. He didn't need to be judged by a demon, of all things.

"I want to take down the King of Hell," she said candidly, like she was ordering dinner. Perhaps she was, perhaps she would have his head on a platter. "And I want you to help me."

Dorian laughed, he couldn’t help it. “The King of Hell? Unless that’s a heavy metal band, I think that’s a bit out of my price range.”

“I’ll handle him. But what have you got to lose anyway? You’re wretched as you are, though you’re trying to hide it with that good ol’ British stiff upper lip. You may as well go out with a bang,” Meg concluded casually. Dorian wondered if she was used to talking people into kamikaze missions on a regular basis.

“That’s just it though,” Dorian said, his jaw clenching with every word. “I can’t _go out_ even if I wanted to.”

Meg cocked her head to the side, a curious grin plastered over her face. “Of course, _immortal_ beloved...”

“Don’t.” Dorian suppressed the urge to shiver. That had been a lifetime ago, when the thought of being immortal and beloved forever had seemed appealing. He turned back to her, his expression set and his voice dispassionate. “What’s in it for me?”

“You help me...” she faked a dramatic pause and made a gesture like a magician revealing a card. “And I’ll find that pesky little contract that’s keeping your soul in stasis and _rip it up_.”

Dorian blinked, the idea hitting him like a blow. Not wanting to live when one couldn’t die was one thing but giving that up, really giving it up was another matter. After all, he never had the courage to just take a knife to the damned thing, like his fictional counterpart had. Could he really do it? He knew it was something he should think long and hard about, so he downed his drink and asked, “Where do I sign?”

“Well, I’m not technically a _crossroads_ demon but I have a few high friends in low places...” Meg blinked, her eyes turning to their natural black before she blinked again, a ripple of red running through them until it consumed all the darkness. “Sign right here.”

She leaned forward, her mouth puckered in an exaggeration of a kiss like a cartoon character. He mirrored her action, making them look like one of those sickly sweet couples that always pecked when moving more than five feet away from each other. Once their lips connected, Dorian pulled away again, sitting back and taking a deep breath, searching himself, looking for the soul he’d been divorced from for so long, he couldn’t even be sure what he was looking for.

“I don’t feel any different,” he realised.

“Of course you don’t, you think I’m an idiot?” Meg laughed. “You made a deal, sweet cheeks. You’ll help me take down Crowley, then when I’m running the show downstairs, I’ll free you from this Oscar Wilde nightmare.”

“Why can’t you just-” 

She cut him off by bringing her hand up to his face and stroking. “Oh darling,” she said, dragging the nail of her index finger down over his cheekbone, cutting his skin like it was no more than paper and then stroking it again as it healed. “That’s why.”

“I don’t understand,” Dorian said, wondering what the hell he’d signed up for but it was too late to back out now.

“You can’t die, you can’t even be injured.” She paused and took a deep breath, like she was inhaling him. “You can’t be possessed. Why would I want to turn away such generous gifts?”

Dorian looked her over again, each time thinking he’d spot something new, some clue, some new layer to her but each time he saw the same demon wearing the same sexy brunette. He knew nothing about her and yet, he’d just pawned his soul to her. Oh well, not like he was using it anyway. “What do you want me to do?”

“I know,” Meg said, clapping her hands together. “Why don’t you buy me that drink I’ve been waiting ever so patiently for?”

**Author's Note:**

> As of 01/01/18, I'm opting to disable comments. [More information here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/13077201).


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